


Burden Me This

by i_got_these_words



Category: 19天 - Old先 | 19 Days - Old Xian
Genre: Death, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:42:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27331402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_got_these_words/pseuds/i_got_these_words
Summary: “Murder has a different meaning when a bunch of lawless thugs replace their morals with machetes and machine guns.”TianShan x Warzone AU
Relationships: He Tian & Mo Guanshan (19 Days), He Tian/Mo Guanshan (19 Days)
Comments: 95
Kudos: 164





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ❆ Author's Note ❆
> 
> Kindly be advised that this fic is not for everyone. The nature of the AU is such that there will be strong references to and/or graphic descriptions of violence and war crimes in _all_ their forms; mention of the physical, psychological, social, economic and environmental consequences of armed conflict; and a commentary on the political corruption of a fictitious government.
> 
> Please note that although English has been chosen as the primary language spoken by the main characters in this fic, the reasons for this do not align with systematic cultural erasure.
> 
> Finally, there is a glossary of terms at the end of each chapter.

A bitter bleakness blanketed the provincial town, a predictable plunge following the barren, broken promises of a new year. A new beginning.

Beneath his boots, weather-beaten snow and brittle ice crunched a pusillanimous protest as a murder of crows marred the gridelin skies. The brumal bite in the air nipped at the tips of his ears and the tip of his nose, his fingers only a couple of degrees shy of frostbite. The real sting, though, was at the back of his head.

The cumulative hostile glares of a handful of insurgents were like crosshairs locked on the nape of his neck. He could feel their icy contemplation as he conducted a primary survey while Jian Yi secured an IV line into a rail-thin arm—skin like parchment, bone like porcelain.

“What we looking at, boss?” Jian Yi asked in softly accented English before connecting a bag of saline to the cannula and squeezing the fluid through.

Guan Shan swallowed, a mixture of wariness and sorrow lodging in his throat.

She was around twelve years old, fourteen at most. Malnourished. Dehydrated. And dangerously underdressed for the weather.

But those were the least of her problems.

Taking in the purple-black bruises around her eyes, behind her ears and peppering both her flanks, Guan Shan replied, “She’s sustained a basal skull fracture. See this discolouration here? That means she’s bleeding into her abdomen too.”

Jian Yi grimaced, aurulent eyes flitting to the group of men brandishing Kalashnikovs and ski masks. “Fell into a ditch my ass.”

“Fuckers,” Guan Shan muttered. “Help me stabilise her c-spine.”

He waited for Jian Yi to secure the girl’s head with his hands, although—given the amount of jostling she’d endured being transported here in one of the two of the insurgents’ nondescript four-by-fours—any additional damage she would have acquired from an unstable neck injury would have likely occurred by now.

“Ask her again if she’s in any pain,” Guan Shan prompted, grabbing the only towel he had left in his medical backpack and folding it in half. He wrapped it carefully around her neck a few times, until its bulk effectively immobilised her cervical spine.

Jian Yi obliged, cooing questions and reassurances in his native tongue. Six months in, Guan Shan could pick out common words and phrases uttered in the mainstream dialect, but his impatience with aspirated vowels and jarring consonants meant his articulation was shit.

The girl, lying flat on a rudimentary stretcher with a rickety frame, remained silent, the fluttering of her frost-laden lashes and the white puffs of air billowing from between her blue-tinged lips the only visible testaments that she was still amongst the living. Whether that was a miracle or misfortune, Guan Shan couldn’t say.

Sighing, Jian Yi rose from his crouch by the girl’s head. Wrapped the animal pelt she’d arrived bundled in tighter around her withered frame. Squeezed the remaining fluid through the IV line before attaching another bag.

“I’ve seen this... behaviour before. She’s in shock, isn’t she?” Jian Yi theorised, dainty brows drawing close. “Mental shock.”

A freelance journalist by profession and an aspiring war correspondent, Jian Yi had been in the thick of it when, two years ago, the guerrilla-led revolution descended into civil war. Guan Shan had come across some of his work online long before he’d considered volunteering his own services as a medic: descriptions of human rights and humanitarian law violations by a sadistic dictatorship, the indiscriminate shelling and sniper fire of civilian populations, and the aftermath that was rarely ever acknowledged— _gāyaṁ cāllagi_ or cold trauma, because terms like “acute stress disorder” and “PTSD” had already been monopolised by the military.

“It’s difficult to say for sure, because of the head injury,” Guan Shan explained. “But you’re probably right. Who knows what she went through.” He looked over his shoulder at the six men congregated nearby, their kajal-rimmed eyes tracking his and Jian Yi’s every move. In contrast to the gaunt girl, they were well kempt, clothing layered against the cold; well fed, shoulders broad and necks thick with corded muscle. “Or has been going through.”

One of the insurgents, Guan Shan noticed with dismay, was eyeing Jian Yi like he wanted the leaner man gagged and trussed. When he made no attempt at subtlety as he adjusted himself in his cargo pants, Guan Shan’s dismay gave way to unadulterated dread.

Jian Yi’s startling features—flawless, snow-fair skin and flaxen, silk-like hair that slipped through the snuggest of top-knots—tended to garner second looks and lasting glances. He often joked about using them to his advantage, scoring sought-after interviews and loosening sealed lips. As of late, however, where sexual violence—against women, children, men—was used as means of psychological warfare, Jian Yi was a doe-eyed rabbit in a den of blood-thirsty coyotes.

_Son of a bitch._

There was no fucking way Guan Shan was going to let any of these assholes lay a hand on Jian Yi.

“Listen, I need something to secure this collar. There might be some rope in the tent,” Guan Shan instructed. “While you’re at it, check on our GSWs, will you?”

“Sure thing,” Jian Yi replied, his teeth chattering lightly. He blew hot air into his hands as he turned on his heel, making tracks on the slushy, well-worn path to the air tent.

Earlier that morning, two young men sporting multiple, non-fatal gunshot wounds had hobbled to the Casualty Clearing Post—once a two-story building that a humanitarian NGO had sequestered to triage and treat civilian casualties brought in from all over town and nearby rural villages. But a targeted mortar attack and the deaths of dozens of foreign aid workers reduced both the physical and organisational structure to rubble and ruin. Now, a tent stood mounted a few feet away from its predecessor, the fading red of the cross emblem on its cotton canvas reflecting the dwindling international support.

And the dwindling hope of the locals.

Cargo Pants followed Jian Yi’s movements with his leering gaze, tongue just shy of lolling out.

Barely reining in a growl, Guan Shan checked once more on the girl’s breathing before turning to the insurgents. They bristled as he approached them, widening their stances and squaring their shoulders.

“She needs to be taken to the nearest hospital,” Guan Shan announced. “I can’t do much more for her here.”

When the men exchanged frowns and suspicious squints, spitting questions in brisk Turan, Guan Shan cut in with a barked, “ _āsuloh_.” Hospital. “I’m a paramedic not a fucking miracle worker.”

One of the taller men snorted, either due to Guan Shan’s ballsiness or his butchering of their language. Or both. In the gap afforded between a cuffed beanie and a ribbed neck gaiter, a pair of silver-grey eyes like melted platinum met Guan Shan’s own.

_“Khstān ni āsuloh?”_ The insurgent asked, words muffled by the fabric over his mouth. ~~~~

Khstan was a gateway city to the north-western mountain range—a prime location, one that rebels had tried and failed to besiege. The large military presence in the city meant that health facilities, run by locals but financed by the government, were reluctant to extend their aid to insurgents. Many workers had already been detained and tortured for providing non-discriminatory medical care—yet another war crime in a long list of war crimes enacted by the Juazi government.

_“Sarē,”_ Guan Shan said with a shake of his head; it’d take a whole day and the better part of a night to get past the manned checkpoints to the heart of Khstan. The girl didn’t have that long. Unsure how to translate ‘a field hospital on the outskirts of the city’, Guan Shan went with “ _cinnādi āsuloh”._ A small hospital. _“Nālu dantoh.”_ Three hours.

Though longer if the weather didn’t hold.

One of the men in aviator shades thrust his chin towards the four-by-fours. _“Yōsaṁ.”_ Let’s go.

“No.” Guan Shan indicated the battered van the insurgents had almost clipped when their vehicles had fishtailed into what passed as the CCP’s parking lot. “ _Sarē._ She’s going by ambulance.”

Adjusting the rifle sling across his chest, Cargo Pants peered at the van. Guan Shan caught another _“yōsaṁ”_ amidst other grunted syllables.

Did the fucker think he was going to ride shotgun?

This time, Guan Shan let the bite of impatience cut into his words. “Listen, assholes, there are two other casualties to transport. This isn’t a party bus. And don’t get me started on what a fucktastic idea it would be travel as a convoy _—_ ” He stalled when a hand landed on his shoulder.

“Steady, boss,” Jian Yi warned, giving Guan Shan a reassuring squeeze before letting go. “Your anger is doing a better job than your words at crossing the language barrier.”

Handing Guan Shan a frayed belt, Jian Yi proceeded to explain in Turan their plan of action: to take the girl via ambulance to get her the medical attention she direly needed. Discontent clear in their body language, the men challenged Jian Yi about not being able to accompany her.

Guan Shan clenched his teeth as he marched back to the stretcher. Fuck knew what they had done to her. And Guan Shan was determined to put as much distance as fucking possible between her and the insurgents.

He was fastening the belt around the makeshift neck brace when a snarl and raised voices made his head snap up.

Jian Yi, hands up, was trying to placate the men. But they only drowned out Jian Yi’s pleas with their aggressive braying. Two of the insurgents then stepped away and stalked towards the tent, the thud of their heavy-duty boots sending seismic quakes through the frozen soil.

“Hey!” Guan Shan shouted after them. “The hell’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Jian Yi admitted, his voice going high. “They went ballistic when I told them about our gunshot victims.”

Just as Guan Shan was about to scurry after the men into the tent, Cargo Pants grabbed Jian Yi by the hood of his parka and gave it a violent tug. Jian Yi stumbled, twisted and fell onto his front, groaning when his face made contact with the dirt. When he tried to get himself up, Cargo placed a scuffed boot between his shoulder blades and pushed him back down.

_“Sarē kalandē!”_ Don’t move!

Guan Shan saw red.

He charged towards them, only to come to a slippery halt when Cargo scooped up his AK-47. As calm as a mercenary without a conscious, he aimed the barrel at Guan Shan’s chest.

“The fuck is wrong with you? We’re medics, you ignorant sack of shit. _We’re unarmed_.”

As Jian Yi tripped over trembling words to translate, Guan Shan glared at Cargo, clenching his fists to stop himself from doing something colossally stupid—like smacking the rifle out of Cargo’s hands and throwing a wild right hook.

“Let him up, you sick fuck!” Guan Shan’s yelling was met with terse Turan. And he tensed as the other men grew restless, drawing close and hands reaching for their weapons.

Fuckfuck _fuck!_

“The hell do they _want,_ Jian Yi?”

But he lost track of Jian Yi’s warble when one of the men—the tall one who had asked about Khstan earlier—broke off from the group and made a beeline for Guan Shan. Built like a Bradley, he carried himself like a soldier, military training bred into blood and bone. And it sent a frisson of fear down Guan Shan’s spine.

_Fuck me._ These guys weren’t just ordinary guerrilla fighters. They were rebel militia.

He stepped between Guan Shan and the barrel of the Kalashnikov, his bulk blocking Cargo’s view. The weight of his gaze—cold, calculating—made Guan Shan swallow his next retort.

“ _Nissa,_ ” he whispered, platinum eyes boring into Guan Shan’s like he could pin Guan Shan in place with that look alone. And he was. “Quiet,” he repeated in Juazi-accented English, voice softer still.

Guan Shan wanted to scream. Demand answers. But the presence before him was a heavy, stifling thing. The man’s features were obscured by his headgear and the neck gaiter he’d pulled up over his nose, but the unsettling gravity in his eyes had Guan Shan rivetted.

Sinking.

Until a caterwaul of sobbing and swearing broke the spell.

They both turned towards the tent, where one of the insurgents walked out dragging two young men by the scruffs of their necks. They kicked and squirmed, bare feet trudging in the dirty snow, gunshot wounds bleeding through the bandages Guan Shan had meticulously applied an hour earlier.

Their words were too wracked with emotion for Guan Shan to understand. But he didn’t need to be a native to read their expressions: terror and trepidation.

The second insurgent followed right after, escorting out a haggard figure at gun-point—Lu Wei, a Juazi villager who made a regular appearance at the CCP, helping where he could, from holding down a casualty whilst Guan Shan performed a field amputation to shrouding the dead and praying with their families.

The two insurgents forced all three men onto their knees.

In contrast to the younger captives, Lu Wei was silent, head bowed, resignation clear in the stoop of his shoulders. He’d always told Guan Shan he was living on borrowed time. That the aerial bombardment that had killed his family, decimated his village, should have killed him too.

Guan Shan whipped back to the towering man in front of him. Clutched at the sleeve of his dark jacket. Scanned the depth of those eyes for an ounce of morality.

“Help them,” Guan Shan urged. “Please.”

He wasn’t sure why he thought this particular rebel fighter would yield to the desperation in his voice. Maybe it was because he’d placed himself between Guan Shan and a loaded gun. Or because, despite Guan Shan’s death grip on his jacket, he hadn’t pulled away. Not yet.

Or maybe it was because, as much as Guan Shan was searching those platinum eyes for something akin to solicitude, they were searching his too.

Amidst the bedlam of bawling and baying, the insurgent in aviator shades called out, “ _He Tiān.”_

Guan Shan watched as those silver-grey eyes closed briefly, jaw tensing beneath the neck warmer, chest rising then falling with a barely audible sigh. Without meeting Guan Shan’s gaze, he extracted himself from Guan Shan’s hold. Hustled past him. Drew a 9mm handgun from the drop-leg holster strapped to his thigh.

_No._

_“Sarē!”_ Guan Shan shouted, reaching out to grab He Tian by the back of his jacket.

But a pair of hands—coarse, gloved—pulled Guan Shan back. An arm coiled around his neck in a semi-slack chokehold. And all Guan Shan could do was curse and thrash frantically as He Tian advanced towards the kneeling men.

It all happened in a single, sharp intake of breath:

Twin shots cracking the atmosphere, silencing the high-pitched cries; heads snapping back with the impact, a bullet each between their eyes; ruby red smearing the snow-laden earth. ~~~~

The bodies of the two young men slumped like rag dolls.

Limp.

Lifeless.

Guan Shan heard Jian Yi whimper.

When He Tian lowered his arm, Lu Wei, splattered in blood but unscathed, blinked up at him. And proceeded to beg.

He begged to be killed too.

He Tian’s response was muted, too low for Guan Shan to catch. And He Tian looked on as Lu Wei trembled, tears staining his face and soaking his dishevelled beard. The two insurgents who had corralled the men out of the tent ignored Lu Wei and started patting down the corpses, sifting through their clothing and pocketing items found.

“You savages,” Guan Shan spat. He clawed at the arm around his neck with both hands. “They were _wounded._ They weren’t a fucking threat—”

He stuttered when He Tian suddenly whirled round and lunged for him. The arm restraining Guan Shan released its hold just as He Tian snagged the front of Guan Shan’s coat and yanked him forward. Almost tumbling into a combat vest-clad chest, Guan Shan tried to right himself only for He Tian to do it for him. Harshly.

“Listen, _mōhra_.” Stranger. Foreigner. _Outsider._ He Tian’s voice sounded like he’d just gargled on broken glass. “Don’t try to make sense of things that are beyond you. Your laws and logic don’t apply here.”

In spite of himself, Guan Shan’s eyebrows rose; there weren’t many Juazis outside of the main cities who were fluent in English.

“Yeah,” Guan Shan bit out once he’d recovered. “Murder has a different meaning when a bunch of lawless thugs replace their morals with machetes and machine guns.”

Eyes flicking briefly towards the cluster of insurgents, He Tian furrowed his brow. Brought the handgun up towards Guan Shan’s mouth. Rested the side of the muzzle against Guan Shan’s lips.

Recently discharged, it tasted of fire and brimstone. And the heat of the steel made Guan Shan hiss.

“Word of advice: the _second_ you become more trouble than you’re worth...” He Tian trailed off, the pause that followed more menacing than any words could be. Guan Shan stilled when He Tian closed in, the scent of gunpowder and woodsmoke making his breath falter. “A fine _mōhra_ like you has probably got someone waiting for you back home, huh? Young, handsome, educated. You’d fetch a pretty penny. How much will your government be willing to pay to get you back?” He Tian’s eyes narrowed, something unreadable lurking in their depth. “Maybe enough to feed the people of this town for a month. Many months. More useful as a hog-tied hostage than a saint with a stethoscope. How’s that for a moral dilemma?”

Rage and revulsion tied a double knot in Guan Shan’s throat. He thrummed with indignation.

Since the start of the Juazi conflict, there’d been a smattering of kidnappings by subversive groups in Turanjuaza – namely of expats, foreign reporters and international aid workers. Demands always centred around ransom. And, given that the international community was willing to pay staggering amounts for the safe return of one of their own, hostage-taking was a profitable trade that insurgents sporadically practised to fund their war.

“Now,” He Tian continued, letting Guan Shan go with a shove. “Get ready to move the kid out.”

With that, he holstered his weapon. Spun on his heel. And rejoined the insurgent in aviators.

Heart racing, Guan Shan watched sidelong as the slender man in shades, a foot shorter than He Tian, curled a hand around the back of He Tian’s neck, drawing him close. He kissed the top of He Tian’s head, a gesture common amongst traditional Juazis that indicated favour or approval.

Or, as redefined by militant revolutionaries, a bond that ran thicker than blood, deeper than brotherhood.

Wet sniffing pulled Guan Shan’s attention away; Lu Wei was curled over himself, body shivering with the cold and shuddering with his cries.

Guan Shan spared the sprawled bodies a heartsick glance, swallowing against the derision that threatened to spill from his lips. He dropped to a squat next to Lu Wei and carefully helped the older man onto his feet. In broken Turan, he urged Lu Wei to flee, to get himself somewhere safe. Or at least, relatively safe.

But Lu Wei croaked a _“sarē”_ and nodded solemnly at the dead; he wasn’t going to leave til he laid them to rest.

“Boss.” Jian Yi, chin grazed from when he’d hit the ground, was being hauled up by the elbow. Cargo hadn’t relinquished his hold on the rifle yet—nor his hold on Jian Yi. “He says—” Jian Yi cast Cargo an anxious look. “He says he’s coming with us.”

“The hell he is,” Guan Shan sneered. They didn’t fucking have _time_ for this. With every minute wasted, the odds of the girl surviving her injuries diminished. “He better get his damn hands off you, Jian Yi. We need to load the bus and get the fuck out of here.”

Guan Shan wasn’t sure how much of his words Cargo understood, but when the rebel fighter smirked and snaked a thick arm around Jian Yi’s waist, Guan Shan figured he’d understood enough. In response, Cargo hollered a challenge or an accusation, and a couple of the other insurgents snickered whilst a few others shuffled uncomfortably. It sounded like he’d asked if Guan Shan was open to sharing.

A wide-eyed Jian Yi paled.

But Cargo was a predictable shitbag and Guan Shan was already charging towards them—“more trouble than you’re worth” be _damned—_ when Cargo groped Jian Yi’s ass and tried to shove his tongue down Jian Yi’s throat.

A blur of black darted past Guan Shan.

_Crunch._

A pained grunt.

A spray of red.

Stunned, Guan Shan froze in his tracks, jaw going slack; He Tian had backhanded Cargo, sending him tumbling into murky snow.

The ensuing commotion of curses and exclamations from the unsettled insurgents almost smothered Jian Yi’s hitched “ _sansatō_ ”.

He Tian looked over his shoulder at Guan Shan, platinum eyes piercing and stone-cold. The hammering in Guan Shan’s chest, set off by the threat of danger and the primal urge to protect, hastened further, ricocheting off his breastbone like bullets propelled by panic. And fear.

“Don’t thank me yet,” He Tian replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ❆ Glossary of Terms ❆
> 
> **Turanjuaza:** A fictitious country.  
>  **Juazi:** The people of Turanjuaza; relating to Turanjuaza or its people.  
>  **Turan:** The official language of Turanjuaza.
> 
> **IV:** Intravenous.  
>  **PTSD:** Post-traumatic stress disorder.  
>  **GSW:** Gunshot wound; a casualty of a gunshot wound.  
>  **CCP:** Casualty Clearing Post, also known as Casualty Clearing Station; a frontline medical unit that triages, stabilises and evacuates casualties.  
>  **NGO:** A non-profit organisation that operates independently of government.
> 
> _gāyaṁ cāllagi:_ Lit. cold trauma; used by Juazis to refer to the acute and chronic psychological and mental health disorders triggered by the traumatic events experienced in times of armed conflict.  
>  _āsuloh:_ Hospital; medical facility.  
>  _Khstān:_ The second largest city in Turanjuaza.  
>  _sarē:_ A negative answer or reaction; expressing disagreement or contradiction; stop.  
>  _cinnādi āsuloh:_ Small hospital.  
>  _nālu dantoh:_ Three hours.  
>  _yōsaṁ:_ Let's go.  
>  _sarē kalandē:_ Stop moving.  
>  _nissa:_ Be quiet.  
>  _mōhra:_ Foreigner; stranger; newcomer.  
>  _sansatō:_ Expression of gratitude; thank you.
> 
>   
> ❆ Author's Note ❆
> 
> Thank you for reading! There are some dark and disturbing themes in this fic, so I understand that it won't be on everyone's reading list. But if you got to the end of this first chapter, I would be forever appreciative for your thoughts.
> 
> Love,  
> Zack


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ❆ Author's Note ❆
> 
> The aforementioned content warnings apply.

With a chip on her shoulder, winter had returned to Turanjuaza with a vengeance.

Inside the aged ambulance—a commercial van that had been donated and poorly repurposed—the frosty temperature was only marginally more forgiving than on the outside.

Guan Shan tucked a fleecy blanket tighter around the girl’s shoulders, trying to preserve what little body heat she had left. Her peripheral circulation was shutting down, the pulse in her wrist too faint for Guan Shan to feel. She wasn’t as alert now and, ten minutes into their commute, had started flitting in and out of consciousness.

Content that her facemask was misting, Guan Shan adjusted the dial on the oxygen cylinder. It wasn’t going to last the trip to Khstan, but his main concern was that _she_ wasn’t going to last the trip.

Once he was satisfied with his checks, he rested back in the side-facing jump seat, a far cry from the high-back captain’s chairs he was used to back home, with their three-point seatbelts and swivel bases. The tattered straps of a lap belt hung uselessly on either side of him; the buckle had jammed during their last transport and Guan Shan had had to cut himself free.

Jian Yi wasn’t the steadiest of drivers, and Guan Shan worried about sustaining a permanent injury in the event of a road traffic collision as much as he did about careening over the low-lying stretcher and plunging face-first into the lap of the brooding insurgent sitting on the bench opposite him.

With his neck gaiter pulled down, He Tian looked younger than his deep-timbred voice led to believe. Even the light dusting of two-day-old stubble on his razor-cut jawline couldn’t mask his youth.

And it troubled Guan Shan that someone so young could kill so callously.

Ideally, He Tian would have been riding upfront; Guan Shan preferred to minimise the number of non-casualty occupants in the passenger compartment. But when He Tian had plunked himself on the bench seat and folded his burly arms across his chest, Guan Shan had decided to let that assertion of dominance slide—if only because Jian Yi was better off driving without the presence of an intimidating figure in the front passenger seat, especially so soon after the incident with Cargo.

Guan Shan could feel He Tian’s gaze on him, and he studiously avoided it. He couldn’t get a read on the insurgent; was He Tian frenemy or formidable foe? From the execution-style killing of two unarmed citizens to the intervention that saved Jian Yi from being assaulted, Guan Shan couldn’t decide. He’d learned early on in his deployment, though, that there was no black and white in war. Only shades of red.

The rumble of He Tian’s tenor, almost lost to the racket of the engine, interrupted his thoughts. “Why’d you stay behind, _mōhra_?” Guan Shan looked up at him quizzically and He Tian added, “You worked with that charity. Before they up and left.”

Frontline Aid was the NGO Guan Shan had signed up with. He’d joined their cause to provide urgent medical relief to Juazi locals adversely affected by the conflict-turned-war. They had set up and run multiple CCPs in rural Turanjuaza. Given that insurgents tended to keep track of international relief groups, Guan Shan wasn’t surprised that He Tian and his bunch of thugs had known about Frontline Aid.

“They didn’t up and leave,” Guan Shan responded, voice catching a little as he remembered the destruction and devastation left in the wake of the mortar attack. “They were killed. Critically injured. Targeted by rebel groups who shit all over the Geneva convention.” Guan Shan took a breath. “The project was disbanded and the volunteers—” _dead or alive_ “—were shipped back home.”

He Tian paused a beat before commenting, “You survived.”

“I was out on a transport when it happened.”

“But why stay in _Turānjuāza_ when your colleagues didn’t?” He Tian’s eyes fell briefly to the girl between them. “This isn’t your fight.”

Guan Shan looked past He Tian through the reflective one-way windows of the ambulance, at the derelict buildings with their shattered glass, the houses with their caved-in roofs, the bomb craters that skewered the roads.

A town sinking in tragedy.

And, seated before him—with a magazine-fed rifle resting across splayed, thick thighs—was one of the many perpetrators that kept the town perpetually submerged.

“I didn’t stay to fight,” Guan Shan retorted, hostility sawing off his words.

_I stayed for those who can’t fight back._

He Tian went quiet, and the stretch of silence pulled Guan Shan back into the past: his last shift at work before the start of his unpaid sabbatical leave—drunken violence, two ODs, a handful of hoax calls; his mom putting on a brave face; his dad breaking down.

“And your boyfriend?” He Tian enquired with a loft of his dark brow.

Guan Shan fumbled for a second, wondering if he’d spoken aloud and wondering how the fuck He Tian could possibly know about the on-again, off-again train wreck of a relationship he had with—

“He’s _Juāzaṁ,_ ” He Tian stated, using the Turan equivalent of ‘Juazi’. “But he should tone down that city-boy accent if he wants to blend in out here in the boonies.”

It was then that Guan Shan realised He Tian was talking about Jian Yi. “We’re not—We’re work partners... Kind of. He’s a journalist.”

When He Tian appraised him with an inquisitive regard, Guan Shan looked away, face turning towards the driver’s cabin. He could see the back of Jian Yi’s head, wisps of snow-damp hair escaping his sloppy topknot and swaying with the ambulance’s failing suspension.

They’d crossed paths at one of the medical facilities in Khstan, where Jian Yi had been interviewing survivors. When he’d found out that Guan Shan was a volunteer working on the frontlines, he was keen to tag along. Within a few weeks of working alongside each other, Jian Yi picked up several skills in advanced first aid, and Guan Shan’s Turan vocab expanded. After the attack on the CCP, Jian Yi had lingered. At first, Guan Shan had questioned how much research was needed for a spread on survivors’ stories. And then he wondered if, after witnessing how the war had ravaged Turanjuaza’s most vulnerable, Jian Yi simply didn’t know how to walk away.

Either way, Guan Shan was grateful for the extra pair of hands—and the company.

But He Tian didn’t need to know any of that, and Guan Shan didn’t feel like sharing.

“Speaking of city boys, what about you?” Guan Shan’s gaze drifted back to He Tian, locking on those platinum eyes. “You don’t sound like you grew up in the boonies either.”

Guan Shan had been in the country long enough to appreciate that multilingualism was a trait limited to the residents of major cities. Although He Tian didn’t have the upper-crust, private school lilt that Jian Yi had when conversing in English, he was curiously proficient.

When He Tian didn’t reply, Guan Shan decided to take a leap. “Does it have something to do with your military background? Were you—are you an interpreter?”

A fleeting look of surprise softened He Tian’s features, betraying his cold-blooded-killer demeanour. It vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and a ghost of a smirk tugged at He Tian’s lips. “Something like that.”

He didn’t offer anything further, and Guan Shan leaned back in his seat, visually cataloguing the girl’s respiratory rate. It was steady, for now. And he hoped to fuck they weren’t trekking two-hundred kilometres to a fucking burial site.

They’d almost cleared the town’s western limit when the ambulance skittered and came to an abrupt stop. Arms flailing, Guan Shan managed to stabilise himself before he collided with an adjacent wall.

He Tian, whose ass hadn’t slid even an inch on the bench, was already sweeping down the safety lever on his carbine. “How many?” He called out, leaping to his feet.

Jian Yi’s response was a mild-mannered curse.

He Tian stomped through to the driver’s cabin and Guan Shan scrambled after him, his head narrowly avoiding a low-hanging medicine cabinet.

“I almost hit him.” Jian Yi was gesticulating towards the windscreen with tremulous hands, but Guan Shan couldn’t see past He Tian’s sizeable shoulders. “He just—he jumped into the middle of the road.”

“Is he hurt?” Guan Shan tried to squeeze past He Tian to get a better look, but He Tian wouldn’t budge.

“I can’t—” Jian Yi stammered. “I’m not sure, boss. What should we do?”

“It’s a trap,” He Tian growled, voice low, his grip tightening around the rifle. “Nobody gets off the bus.”

“The hell?” Guan Shan pushed against He Tian’s back with a grunt. His palms met with a robust resistance that was part muscle and part Kevlar. “I’m the lead on this transport. Let me the fuck through.”

He Tian turned his head a fraction towards Guan Shan, but didn’t look over his shoulder; his eyes were trained on whatever, whoever, was still on the road. “As the only medic on board, you’re the _last_ person I’m letting off this bus. Now, back the fuck up.”

And so, cheeks flushing with anger, Guan Shan did exactly that.

Following a brief review of the girl’s vital signs, Guan Shan grabbed his battered backpack and popped open the rear doors of the ambulance. The high-pitched clang of protesting hinges punctuated He Tian’s caustic “Mother of _fuck—_ ”.

Guan Shan winced as the sub-zero climate hit him face-on like a block of ice. He grit his teeth and hopped out of the vehicle, landing with a squelch on blackened snow. The road was deserted but he checked for oncoming vehicles anyway before circling round to the front of the ambulance.

The pedestrian Jian Yi had alluded to was ambulant, thank fuck; the likelihood of any life-threatening injuries was minimal. The figure painted a slight stature in a woolly hat and a woolly coat several sizes too big, with mittened hands planted on the hood of the ambulance, as though to prevent it from advancing further.

Guan Shan couldn’t see anything obvious to suggest the young man was armed, so he took his chances and hollered a greeting, _“Yamasālu.”_

Startled, the man whipped his head towards Guan Shan. His face was ruddy from cold or windburn or both and his eyes lit up at the sight of the medical cross on Guan Shan’s backpack. _“Dhikāri!”_

“No, I’m not a doctor,” Guan Shan countered, but the correction was moot; he was likely the only medically qualified personnel for miles around. “Are you hurt?”

The young man yammered in Turan and, although Guan Shan struggled to keep up, the animated swinging of his arms and the spring in his step as he approached Guan Shan suggested that the man harboured no serious wounds. The urgency in his tone, however, hinted at something far more severe.

A scruffy mitten latched onto Guan Shan’s forearm as the man started to pull him in the direction of a stretch of one-story buildings laid to waste. Homes—or, at least, they had been once. Inhabitable now, the structures didn’t look sturdy enough to survive the next storm.

“Wait.” Guan Shan skidded as he tried to dig his heels into the ground; the muddy slush didn’t allow for any purchase. And the strength in the man’s grip underlined his desperation. “Where are we—”

A shadow hurtled over them both, halting the young man in his tracks.

A gust of hot air grazed Guan Shan’s cheek.

A growl prickled the skin on the back of his neck.

_“Khtāra.”_ Fuck off.

He Tian wrenched the mittened hand off Guan Shan’s upper arm with enough force that Guan Shan half-anticipated the smaller man’s limb would rip out of its socket.

With a yelp, the man clutched his shoulder, peering up at He Tian with a frightened look on his face. The fear intensified when the man spotted the assault rifle He Tian was holding across his chest in a carry position, muzzle pointing down and at an angle.

“Get your ass back on the bus,” He Tian ordered. He didn’t even spare Guan Shan a glance, his gaze fixed on the quivering figure before them.

Stepping out of He Tian’s looming shadow, Guan Shan hissed, “Stop scaring him. He needs help.”

He scanned the front cabin of the ambulance through the windscreen, hoping Jian Yi would interpret for him. But the driver’s seat was empty and Guan Shan surmised that Jian Yi was in the back, keeping an eye on the girl.

He Tian scoffed. “What he needs is a _mōhra_ foolish enough to fall for his sob story.”

Impatience licked at Guan Shan’s nerve endings like flames lighting firewood. “The only fool here is you for thinking I’d get back on that bus on your say-so.”

“Yeah? Well, you’re gonna look like a damn fool when I haul your ass over my—”

It was in that moment that the young man, who had nervously been observing their vehement exchange, took off. He ran towards the line of decrepit houses, kicking back snow as he gained speed, his oversized grey coat flapping behind him like a flag waving in surrender.

He Tian whistled, and Guan Shan wasn’t sure if he only imagined the slight inflection that gave it a smug slant. 

“All aboard.” Turning back towards the ambulance, He Tian beckoned Guan Shan with a flex of his wrist.

_Like hell,_ Guan Shan thought.

He flung the straps of his backpack over his shoulders and sprinted after the fleeing figure. Guan Shan hoped that, despite the man’s apparent exigency, whatever medical aid was required would be quick and uncomplicated. Not only did he want to minimise the delay this was going to cause to their journey, he wanted to get back to the girl as soon as he could; Jian Yi was competent in assessing and stabilising major trauma victims but he was underconfident and still needed supervising.

Guan Shan swore under his breath when his foot lost traction on a slippery patch of snow and he almost landed on his face. It was then that he heard the heavy footfalls behind him. He chanced a look.

_Shit._

He Tian, grim-faced, was running like he wasn’t carrying his own weight in gear and body armour; like his musclebound physique was lighter than Guan Shan’s trim, streamlined form; like he was a soldier who ate up two miles in under ten minutes in frostbite-inducing temperatures for breakfast every morning.

But Guan Shan was no sluggard either. He was used to pushing his body to its limits: carrying an unconscious adult down multiple flights of stairs, performing uninterrupted CPR for thirty minutes straight in the back of a moving vehicle and, more recently, evacuating casualties and corpses from ground zero before the next bomb went off.

Huffing, Guan Shan lunged after the receding grey figure ahead. He followed it through a labyrinth of passageways and back streets, bypassing and bolting over broken concrete and twisted rebar like setbacks in an obstacle course.

Unduly dry, the air stung his eyes and stripped the inside of his nose. Guan Shan took a lungful, relishing how the burn in his throat matched the one in his thighs, before— _finally_ —reaching out and snagging the hood of that monstrous wool coat.

The man whimpered and, like a quarry in a swivet, tried to squirm out of Guan Shan’s grip.

“Hold up,” Guan Shan rasped, a little winded, then bumbled through a handful of his go-to Juazi vernacular. “ _Rākitsa. Hāyaṁ. Lēntē.”_ Medic. Help. Safe.

Stilling, the young man hesitated, wet eyes studying Guan Shan. He muttered a few inaudible words breathlessly as his gaze darted past Guan Shan.

Guan Shan followed his line of sight, looking back at the way they came. The alley was empty.

Where was He Tian?

Had they lost him?

Just as Guan Shan mused about the implications of that, a mittened hand grabbed his wrist and urged him forward. He let the man hastily guide him past houses pockmarked with bullet holes, collapsing walls graffitied with revolutionary slogans, and the blackened carcass of an upturned military tank.

Deserted, the sidewalks and cobbled streets were littered with high-calibre cartridges and casings, visible amongst the patches of snow. The abutting buildings, though, were far from abandoned. Now and again, Guan Shan glimpsed a pair of eyes blinking owlishly at him through the dimness of man-made and warfare-rendered apertures. A few tracked his progress as he hurried past. Most, however, stared, unseeing, lost in an endless internal reel of nightmares that looped from one horror to the next.

Abruptly, the young man took a sharp right, ducking into a curved snicket. They stopped before what looked like a trapdoor in the ground—the wood brittle and rotting, the hinges slick with moss.

With a soft grunt, the man lifted the door, revealing a narrow stairway that spilled into darkness. He indicated that Guan Shan should go down first, his non-verbal instructions bolstered by several _“saramu”_ s. Quick. Hurry. Faster.

Guan Shan took a tentative step as he entered the stairway. The stone was wet and crumbling, but it held his weight. Given how narrow the passage was, he had to tilt slightly so that his arms weren’t brushing against the damp walls. Briefly, he entertained a fleeting thought about how He Tian—whose shoulders were broad enough to serve a table of six—would have had to descend crab-like to get through. And possibly stooped, too, to clear the low ceiling.

As Guan Shan neared the bottom, the stairway opened up to an underground bunker and the blistering stench of rot, fear and burnt carbon churned his stomach. He’d grown accustomed to the smell of war; he’d never grow accustomed to what it betokened: A people suffering.

The air was humid, dank, and the space dimly lit by a smattering of oil lamps.

He counted thirty or so bodies, encrusted in dirt and grime and grief, huddled in groups of three or more. They were congregated on one side of the bunker, slinking away from the two women in the far corner, the younger one of whom was lying on her back, knees bent. She was panting.

Screaming.

Pushing.

_Oh, fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ❆ Glossary of Terms ❆
> 
> **NGO:** A non-profit organisation that operates independently of government.  
>  **CCP:** Casualty Clearing Post, also known as Casualty Clearing Station; a frontline medical unit that triages, stabilises and evacuates casualties.  
>  **OD:** Overdose, usually in reference to recreational drug use; a casualty of a drug overdose.
> 
> _mōhra:_ Foreigner; stranger; newcomer.  
>  _Juāzaṁ:_ Juazi.  
>  _yamasālu:_ An informal greeting; casual hello.  
>  _dhikāri:_ Doctor.  
>  _khtāra:_ (vulgar slang) Fuck off.  
>  _rākitsa:_ A healthcare professional.  
>  _jāyaṁ:_ Help; guidance.  
>  _lēntē:_ Safe.  
>  _saramu:_ Hurry up.  
> 
> 
> ❆ Author's Note ❆
> 
> Thank you for giving this fic a chance <3  
> For anyone concerned about the upcoming birthing scene, this will not be graphic nor will it be the main focus of the next chapter.  
> Finally, I appreciate every single comment and kudos! Writing is like a journey for me, and the feedback keeps me company.
> 
> Zack x


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ❆ Content Warnings ❆
> 
> Death; non-graphic descriptions of a natural birth; a detailed experience of a panic attack.

Guan Shan was used to working under pressure.

Some of his former colleagues might have even accused him of thriving on it.

So he couldn’t understand why, as he popped an IV line in and flushed through a shot of antibiotics, his hands shook; why a layer of sweat slicked up the inside of his disposable gloves when he clocked her vital signs; why it felt like someone had wrapped his chest in baling wire.

Why it was suddenly so hard to breathe.

But, if he was honest with himself, Guan Shan recognised it for it was: panic.

It was due, in part, to the fact that he’d only ever delivered a baby in training practice, with dummies and actors replacing patients and anxious parents, the scenarios rehearsed and regurgitated. Artificial.

To a larger extent, it was because the pregnant woman— _"Ying Tāi”_ , the young man kept calling her as he kissed her hand and stroked her hair—was clearly sick as fuck. Clammy and hot to the touch, she had the glazed-eyed look of someone too drained and too dehydrated to be following the commands of the older woman crouched between her legs. Heavy breathing and pitiful protests followed Ying Tai’s feeble attempts to _“trōyu!”_.

The ugly truth, though, the _real_ reason for the hellish, twisted feeling in Guan Shan’s gut, was—

_“Dhikāri,”_ the older woman called out, voice hushed. The flickering shadows thrown by the oil lamps deepened the hollows of her cheeks, the wrinkles lining her face, the heartache in her limpid eyes.

Guan Shan passed the bag of saline to the young man, demonstrating how to push the liquid through. Ying Tai was lying at an angle, positioned so that the pretence of privacy was more than just the other dwellers turning their backs, covering their ears and screwing their eyes shut.

He joined the acting midwife and knelt beside her. The animal pelt spread under Ying Tai was soaked through; sweat, blood and amniotic fluid matted the dark fur.

The older woman took his gloved hand in her own, her grip moist. She whispered again, _“Dhikāri.”_

He couldn’t look her in the eye.

Guan Shan tried to swallow past the constriction in his throat. It felt like a fist around his windpipe— a crushing force fracturing his vocal cords. She was talking again, but Guan Shan couldn’t understand her. The words were too foreign, her voice too low, the sound of his hyoid bone snapping too loud.

So loud, in fact, that he didn’t register the uneasy stirring from the dwellers on the opposite side of the open-plan bunker; didn’t hear the person approaching him from behind; didn’t even startle when he was pulled up onto his feet.

A pair of blazing— _beautiful_ —platinum eyes bore into his own, searching. Exactly like they had earlier on that day.

Searching, searching, searching.

The fuck were they looking for?

“ _Mōhra._ Hey.” He Tian grabbed Guan Shan by the shoulders and gave him a cautious shake. He tapped Guan Shan’s cheek with the flat of his hand, thumb gently pulling down his lower eyelid. “Are you hurt? Did they drug you?”

“Wh-what?” Guan Shan croaked, the word a strangled sound. Where had He Tian come from? How had he found them? “No.”

“You don’t look right.” Brow a stormy thundercloud, He Tian glanced over at Ying Tai, who seemed to be mumbling incoherently now. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” Wetting his dry lips, Guan Shan tried to turn away from He Tian. “I mean, she’s in labour. Obviously.”

With a hand around Guan Shan’s elbow, He Tian held him in place. “I don’t mean her. I mean you.”

Guan Shan tried to feign ignorance, but the comment caught in his throat like a shard of shrapnel. In its place, a dry, barbed sob tore at his insides, seeking escape. Release. Relief. Guan Shan broke out in a cold sweat trying to smother it, shivering when beads of icy perspiration slithered down the nape of his neck and down the length of his spine.

“You look like you’re about to shit yourself.” He Tian’s voice was gravel and splintered glass, his Juazi accent only just staving off the sharpest of edges. “Maybe even literally.”

The older woman stood from her crouch, aged knees creaking, and shuffled towards them. She barely came up to He Tian’s waist. She ignored the insurgent, though, and focused on Guan Shan, the plea in her tone transcending the language barrier.

“She wants you to deliver the kid,” He Tian muttered.

“I can’t,” Guan Shan replied, except his mouth was so parched all he managed was a pathetic squawk.

He could feel He Tian’s gaze on him, piercing, perplexed, probably wondering how the fuck he’d certified as a paramedic. And it made Guan Shan feel even more pathetic.

Eventually, He Tian nodded, lips pressing into a steely line as though he’d come to a decision. “Okay.” He exhaled. “What now?”

Guan Shan blinked. “Huh?”

“Give me the lowdown. If it helps, pretend I’m your journalist boyfriend.”

“I don’t...” Guan Shan shook his head, not comprehending.

“Talk to me.” He Tian urged. And when his hand flexed around Guan Shan’s arm, it kneaded the muscle there, the gesture strangely soothing.

“She’s...” Guan Shan cleared his throat. “She’s in active labour. She’d been pushing for a couple of hours before I’d arrived. I don’t... I don’t know how many weeks she is; whether we’re looking at a premature delivery. Is this her first pregnancy? Is the baby even head down? What—” Guan Shan was rambling now, panic rearing its ugly head again.

“Hey,” He Tian cut in. “Hey. Okay. I get it. There’s a lot of uncertainty here. But what aren’t you telling me?”

The vice was back and it felt like his lungs were collapsing, like he needed a 14-gauge needle to decompress the tension pneumothorax building in his chest. Is this what it felt like to be crushed by a tonne of concrete? Or exposed to a potent nerve agent that paralysed your respiratory muscles?

Why couldn’t he fucking _breathe?_

A firm hand curled around the back of his neck, skin rough, cooling. He Tian leaned in so that they were eye-to-eye and Guan Shan had nowhere else to look.

“Keep talking. Tell me what you need.” When Guan Shan didn’t respond, He Tian added, “If you don’t, I’m marching you out of here. And I know that’s not what you want. You didn’t jump out of the bus and run like you had a hellhound on your ass just so you could turn back at the first sign of trouble.”

Fuck.

He Tian was right.

For the first time since their regrouping in the bunker, Guan Shan took in He Tian’s appearance: a few superficial grazes on his forehead, a tuft of moss tangled in his beanie, muck and slime sullying his tactical jacket.

“Did you get stuck?” Guan Shan asked, surprised at how steady his voice was. He Tian tilted his head. “When you came down the steps, did you get stuck?”

Quirking a brow, He Tian tried and failed to suppress a wry smirk. “A little.”

And the image of He Tian—all shoulders and square angles—trying to navigate the narrow stairway, suddenly made it a little easier to breathe. And easier to remember why, after the targeted mortar attack on the CCP, Guan Shan had stayed in Turanjuaza.

Guan Shan shifted, his gaze swinging over to the acting midwife, who was dabbing a damp cloth on Ying Tai’s face and neck; and the young man, who looked at him and He Tian with a mixture of alarm and apprehension.

“She’s septic,” Guan Shan confessed. “Her contractions are weak, uncoordinated.”

He Tian grunted. “What else?”

“The baby...” There was a slight spasm in his throat and Guan Shan’s voice tapered off. He tried again, but only loud enough for He Tian to hear. “The baby’s dead.”

A disturbed pause. _“Bāghu.”_ Shit.

“The cord prolapsed before I got here.”

So why did he feel so damn guilty?

“Dumb it down for me,” He Tian pressed.

“It’s where part of the umbilical cord is delivered before the rest of the baby. As labour progresses, the cord gets compressed and blood supply to the baby is compromised. The only way of resolving it, and saving the baby, is an emergency C-section.”

“Let’s get her on the bus then. Take her to the nearest—”

“It’s too late,” Guan Shan interjected as a ripple of panic lapped at old and new wounds. “The cord. I—I checked for a pulse. There isn’t one.”

“Fuck me.” He Tian’s grip tightened momentarily, and Guan Shan wondered if He Tian was aware his hand was still around the back of Guan Shan’s neck. He didn’t say anything, though; he was grateful for the way it was holding him up. Centring him. “Do they know?”

“The old lady does, I think. She was coaching Ying Tai to push, but now...”

“She wants you to take over,” He Tian said, filling in the blanks. “She wants you to put them out of their misery.”

Guan Shan felt his pulse quicken, his mouth go dry.

“Alright.” He Tian stepped back, hand slipping away from Guan Shan’s nape.

He thumbed the worn leather sling off his shoulder and let the rifle drop down to the muddy ground; the motion and ensuing clamour spurred the dwellers to slink further away. After he slid out of his dark jacket and tossed it to the side, He Tian rummaged in the medical backpack, plucking out a pair of gloves and pulling them on. Guan Shan only carried mediums, though, and He Tian’s thick fingers ripped through the latex. He grabbed another and tried again.

“What are you doing?”

Sans jacket, and with the sleeves of his black top bunched up his forearms, He Tian looked even bigger than he did before. And—if the furtive, wide-eyed stares of the bunker inhabitants were anything to go by—more intimidating.

Despite the bulky combat vest strapped around his torso, He Tian manoeuvred with ease, depositing himself at the south end of Ying Tai.

Guan Shan asked again, hissing this time, “What are you _doing_?”

“Fuck knows. I was counting on you telling me.” He Tian’s eyes glinted as he lifted his chin. “And, no, I’m not calling you boss.”

Guan Shan felt the vice around his chest loosen a notch.

Between instructing He Tian and re-assessing Ying Tai’s vitals, Guan Shan was back in his element, no longer crippled by a memory that haunted him like a vindictive ghost. Sure, it still hovered, but only in the periphery. And guiding He Tian whilst simultaneously trying to stabilise Ying Tai’s blood pressure was enough to keep Guan Shan sufficiently preoccupied.

Guan Shan was using an oil lamp to warm up a bag of saline that had crystallised when Ying Tai began to perk up. With the young man encouraging her and providing sips of water from a clay cup, she started to push harder and for longer.

“Head’s out,” He Tian relayed, repeating the announcement in Turan.

The older woman rushed to his side with a ragged blanket. And, a few minutes later, a wrapped-up bundle was placed on Ying Tai’s chest.

Floppy. Blue-tinged. Quiet.

Fuck.

_Fuck!_

Guan Shan had anticipated this, but it didn’t make it any easier to process. Or any easier to accept. On autopilot, he rubbed the baby vigorously with the blanket, then gave it a few rescue breaths. He was about to start chest compressions when the older woman stilled his hand.

_“Sarē, dhikāri,”_ she murmured with a sad smile. She took the bundle from him and hugged it close as Ying Tai and the young man looked on, tears free falling.

Bawling, begging, even the occasional bruising altercation were grief reactions Guan Shan was used to. But the silent sorrow before him, the solemn resignation, spoke of a people who knew nothing but loss.

“We should go,” He Tian said, snapping off his soiled gloves.

Guan Shan nodded. He handed a vial of antibiotics to the young man, with instructions to give Ying Tai another dose in a few hours. He was scrubbing his hands in a cracked pot of murky water when the older woman started to hum, rocking the small bundle in her arms. A soft susurration at first, her voice grew stronger, the melody slow and mellow. Soon, other voices joined her, the sound reaching a crescendo that carried throughout the underground shelter.

Guan Shan felt the roll of the dwellers’ words, their mourning, in the marrow of his bones. He recognised the lyrics. It was the Juazis’ call to an uprising, the song of The Revolution: _Daṁir Senēm_.

Burden Me This.

He Tian seized his carbine and swiped the medical backpack. “That’s our cue, _mōhra_.”

Fumbling after him, Guan Shan grabbed He Tian’s tactical jacket off the ground. He felt the glares of the singing men, women, children, as he sped through the bunker; they were bolder now, unblinking. Baleful.

Swiftly, Guan Shan took the lead clambering back up the stairway, his clumsy footsteps a cacophonous backdrop to He Tian’s pithy curses. When he pushed open the trapdoor, a glacial blast slammed it shut, and he almost toppled backwards from the force of it.

“Dammit.”

He Tian’s arm reached over Guan Shan and, together, they shoved the wooden door open again.

A dusting of silver flurries spilled from the violet-grey sky. A fresh layer of snow had descended on the town since Guan Shan had entered the bunker; it twinkled in the dusky light, trying and failing to distract from the townsfolk’s tragedies.

Guan Shan started in the direction he and the young man had come from, but He Tian caught his hand and steered him deeper into the snicket.

“Where are we going?” Guan Shan asked, his skin tingling where He Tian’s gun calluses rubbed against his palm.

“Never take the same route twice,” was the sombre reply.

Looking down at their hands, Guan Shan wondered how He Tian had managed to fit his into the medium-sized disposables; his fingers were almost twice as thick as Guan Shan’s, knuckles angular and palms wide enough to flatten a boulder.

_What the fuck._

Horrified, Guan Shan pulled free of He Tian’s grasp; he had no business feeling all tingly and shit around a fucking insurgent who had shot, point-blank, two unarmed casualties. Admittedly, he’d also stepped in when Guan Shan was paralysed with panic and helped deliver a baby, but that didn’t atone for the extrajudicial killings, for his affiliation with a rebel group that terrorised and murdered civilians.

And yet...

Although Guan Shan would have preferred not to talk about what had happened in the bunker, he felt compelled to say _something_ ; to deflect from why he’d frozen like a rookie on his first beat; to erase the entire fucking thing from both their memories.

In the end, though, after staring at the back of He Tian’s head for an eternity, Guan Shan merely mumbled, “Thank you. For earlier.”

He Tian didn’t respond, and Guan Shan figured he hadn’t been loud enough.

With powdery snow like bone dust beneath their boots, they trekked through what had probably once been the town square. Mounds of rubble and timber replaced landmarks, and the stone ground cracked and caved under their weight. They skirted around the perimeter of a bomb crater in the centre of the square, its cavity filled with virescent slurry. A single, headless black crow floated on its back in the rancid liquid, its wings akimbo. A dark angel, decapitated.

“Hey,” He Tian said, pausing in his stride so that Guan Shan could catch up. They continued their trudge side by side. “You feeling better?”

Guan Shan wavered; He Tian was asking about his appalling performance in the bunker. “Uh, yeah. I was just... in the wrong headspace.”

He Tian threw him an assessing glance, sidelong. “Is it something you wanna talk about it?”

_Fuck no._ Focusing on his feet as he stepped over debris and a solitary, soleless sneaker, Guan Shan half-shrugged.

“Is it something you oughta talk about?”

“Maybe.” _Not today._

_Not ever._

A beat later, He Tian intoned, “You can’t save everyone.”

Guan Shan bristled; a spark of anger flickered just under his skin. “I’ll be damned if I let that stop me from trying.”

“Well, then, _mōhra_. You’ll be damned if you do. And damned if you don’t.”

They cut through a decimated school, upturned desks and discarded books cluttering their path. Guan Shan was following He Tian through to the wrecked schoolyard when his curiosity piqued. “How did you find us? When he took off and I ran after him, I thought we’d lost you.”

“We were being followed.” They came to a low brick wall that had gone one round with an RPG and lost, spectacularly. He Tian bounded over it. “I broke off to take care of it.”

“Followed? By who?”

A stiff breeze lashed at Guan Shan’s cheeks. He tried to bring up his backpack to shield his face, only he wasn’t carrying it; He Tian was. Guan Shan was still holding onto He Tian’s jacket.

“Hey, I’ve got your—” Guan Shan squinted. The falling flecks of snow were turning pink-red as they melted into the dark fabric. “...Jacket.”

He Tian made a sound that was part grunt, part rumble. Wordlessly, he took the stained garment from Guan Shan, exchanging the backpack for it. Neither of them acknowledged the streaks of blood on Guan Shan’s hands.

With a chill, Guan Shan thought of the individual or individuals who had followed them. “What happened to—”

“Don’t”—He Tian’s platinum eyes flicked towards him, something feral lurking in their depth—“ask questions you don’t wanna know the answers to.” He scanned the empty road where the ambulance should have been. “Now, where the fuck is the bus?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ❆ Glossary of Terms ❆
> 
> **CCP:** Casualty Clearing Post, also known as Casualty Clearing Station; a frontline medical unit that triages, stabilises and evacuates casualties.  
>  **C-section:** Caesarean section.  
>  **RPG:** Rocket-propelled grenade.
> 
> _trōyu:_ Push.  
>  _dhikāri:_ Doctor.  
>  _mōhra:_ Foreigner; stranger; newcomer.  
>  _bāghu:_ (vulgar slang) Shit.  
>  _sarē:_ A negative answer or reaction; expressing disagreement or contradiction; stop.  
>  _daṁir senēm:_ Lit. burden me this.  
> 
> 
> ❆ Author's Note ❆
> 
> Thank you for reading and for sticking with this fic thus far!  
> Every comment and kudos makes this journey a little less lonely.
> 
> Love,  
> Zack


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ❆ Content Warnings ❆
> 
> Death; cruelty; references to an abduction; explicit descriptions of violence and torture.

A cragged, snow-crusted landscape. Clusters of bare-branched conifers. And, to the north-west, the rugged contours and unconquered summits of Turanjuaza’s colossal mountain range.

The lacrimoso cries of a squally wind. The crisp, crystalline snaps of ice underfoot. And, with each step the insurgent took, the clack of a scratched-up carbine as it bounced against his broad back.

The frostnip in his fingers. The stiffness in his knuckles. Even the stickiness of the drying blood in the creases of his palms.

Guan Shan concentrated on the sights around him, the sounds, the sensations; anything to distract himself from conjuring up worst-case scenarios, to get his mind off the fact that Jian Yi and the girl were missing.

Fuckfuck _fuck._

He and He Tian were past the town limits now, slogging through snow sludge. Initially, they’d followed the van’s tyre tracks on the main road but when the snowflakes thawed to sleet, they’d lost the trail.

“Would your boyfriend have moved the bus?” He Tian urged. “Would he have headed to _Khstān_ without you?”

Guan Shan couldn’t think of a single, valid reason Jian Yi would have resumed the transport without him; it would be impossible to drive and keep eyes on a casualty at the same time. But he _had_ to believe there was a plausible explanation, because the alternative was that Jian Yi hadn’t relocated voluntarily.

“We always transport in pairs,” Guan Shan replied, shoving his hands deeper into his coat pockets, the cold, biting pain in his extremities making him wince. “If he moved the bus then—”

“It’ll be because he was forced to. Either that or someone else moved it,” He Tian finished, grimly. _“Bāghu.”_

There were a handful of passable roads leading into and out of the town, but only one main route to Khstan. They continued on that path as the outline of the town gradually faded behind them, distance and a veil of snowfall reducing its silhouette to an apparition.

As far as Guan Shan could tell, they were the only souls for miles; the violence of war and a vicious winter deterring wanderers—both human and bestial.

He felt sick and hollow at the thought of Jian Yi and the girl coming to any harm, and guilty because he’d got off the bus when He Tian had explicitly told him to fucking not to.

“We’re too exposed like this. We’re walking targets.”

Teeth chattering, Guan Shan asked, “Who would target us?” And immediately felt like a dumbass. Apprehending He Tian—who, clad in combat gear and black fatigues, was blatantly an anti-state insurgent—would be a wet dream for the Juazi Armed Forces and pro-government militia. Belligerent civilians as well as rival rebel groups were also credible threats.

What Guan Shan had meant to ask was: Who would target the bus, and why?

It made him wonder, not for the first time, about the girl—who she was, and what she meant to the guerrilla fighters He Tian affiliated with.

“You said we’d been followed.” Guan Shan huffed after He Tian as he headed for a line of scraggy trees and shrubs. “Could they be linked to this? Would they have taken Jian Yi and the girl?”

“It’s possible.” A muscle in He Tian’s jaw tensed. “But only if there was a separate unit to the one that followed us to the bunker.”

Guan Shan hesitated. “Who were they?”

“Suspicious sons of bitches who should’ve left well enough alone.”

“Suspicious of what?”

Almost lazily, He Tian lolled his head in Guan Shan’s direction. His eyes caught the light reflecting off a line of snow that had gathered on a low-lying branch. “Me.”

Guan Shan felt the fine hairs on his nape rise. “Your buddies,” he guessed. “The ones back at the CCP.”

“Yeah.” And, with that, He Tian turned away, plodding deeper into the dense thicket of trees.

A multitude of questions assailed Guan Shan: What did his comrades suspect him of? And why? How had He Tian dealt with the men who had followed them? And why had the insurgents been so keen to accompany the medical transport to Khstan?

“The girl,” Guan Shan began, hissing when a spikey twig scraped his cheek. “Who is she?”

“What did we say about questions you’re better off not knowing the answers to, _mōhra_?” He Tian said without turning around.

Fearing for Jian Yi’s safety and the young girl’s wellbeing, Guan Shan ground his molars. He tried to curb the worst of his anger. And failed. “Fuck you,” he spat. “ _We_ didn’t say anything. _You_ decided on your own, with all the wisdom you can stuff into a gaping asshole, that I can’t handle—”

He Tian stopped midstride, working his jaw soundlessly. He appeared to be considering his next words. “The thing about information is that, in the right hands, it’s invaluable. It’s power. In the wrong hands, it makes you vulnerable.” His lips, tinted plum in the current climate, thinned into a scowl. “A liability.” He resumed his trot, his pace faster than before.

What in the actual _fuck?_

“Hey!” Guan Shan shouted after him, but He Tian carried on. Rushing to keep up as swatting branches slowed him down and exposed roots scuffed the toes of his boots, Guan Shan felt a fresh wave of fury crash over him. “Did you bastards beat her? Huh? Did you break her until she had nothing left to give? You fucking brutes. Where’d you pick her up? How far away is she from home?”

Guan Shan saw it a minute too late: the vein-popping clench of He Tian’s fists, the stiffening of his posture, the rigid line of his shoulders. He barrelled into He Tian’s back when the insurgent came to a sudden stop. With an _oomph_ , Guan Shan landed on his ass, his nose smarting where it had collided with the rifle’s handguard.

“You wanna know who broke her?” He Tian snarled, whipping around to face Guan Shan. “You wanna know who held her captive for _months_ then threw her into a ditch like yesterday’s trash when her old man wouldn’t yield?” The rage on He Tian’s face—cheeks flushed, canines bared, eyes ablaze—took Guan Shan by surprise. “It was those fucking shit stains you were patching up all pretty and nice.”

It took Guan Shan a moment to realise He Tian was referring to the GSWs back at the CCP. He shook his head, disbelieving. “No.”

“They grabbed her in the dead of the night. She was probably fast asleep, tucked away in daddy’s cushy mansion.” He Tian crouched down to Guan Shan’s level. “You saw what they did to her. Barely clothed. Broken bones that had been reset just so that they could be broken again. Starved to the brink of death and pulled back every time. They needed to keep her alive, but only just.”

“She’s a fucking kid,” Guan Shan choked out.

He Tian’s gaze, dark and unreadable, flitted to the ground between them. He took a breath. “Her old man’s the Deputy Secretary of Defence.”

Guan Shan felt his jaw unhinge. He didn’t know if the shrill screeching in his ears was the howling wind or a warning alarm going off in his head.

The coverage of the high-profile kidnapping had been scant, the details scarce; censorship in Turanjuaza had intensified after the uprising, with independent media outlets being shut down and anti-corruption journalists jailed. Guan Shan remembered Jian Yi telling him about _Centē ni Juāzaṁ,_ the notorious anti-government paramilitary group who had claimed to have abducted the daughter of the Deputy Secretary of Defence. Their demand: the release of their second in command, who had been captured following a successful night raid of one of their training camps. But the spokesperson for the Department of Defence had denied the claims, stating that no such kidnapping had taken place; that thirteen-year-old Huang Ren was safe at home.

“There was no way the State was going to admit that a bunch of coyote-fucking asshats from the boonies had managed to get past their top-notch security,” He Tian explained.

Guan Shan added, echoing what Jian Yi had told him, “And there was no way they were going to trade a high-value prisoner for her.”

He Tian’s breath misted between them. “Sure, there’d been one or two clandestine attempts to retrieve her. But they were half-hearted and poorly planned. What’s one brat lost in the government’s grand scheme to burn this country and her people to the ground?”

“So...” Guan Shan’s fingers curled in the frozen soil, hopeful. “You and your group... what? Rescued her?”

A small smile tugged at the corner of He Tian’s mouth. “Come on, _mōhra,_ do we look like a bunch of saviours to you?” He took hold of Guan Shan’s upper arm and hoisted him up. “We have our own agenda. The funding well from opposition sympathisers is drying up. We figure Mr Huang might be more open to a... covert financial exchange. And getting one up on those _Centē_ bastards is always a plus.” He Tian tsked. “But the op went tits up; not only were they already halfway to killing her when we ambushed them, we also lost a handful of our men in the gunfire.” A short, low, huff of laughter. “It was pure fucking coincidence that two of their wounded ended up at the medical digs we took the kid to.”

Frowning, Guan Shan dusted off the seat of his pants. Even if He Tian had killed the GSWs because of their part in the abduction and maltreatment of Ren, it didn’t exonerate him. Not one fucking bit.

He Tian shook his head like he had read Guan Shan’s thoughts. “It was never about her. It was about evening the death toll.” He shrugged, the roll of his shoulders dismissive. “And, as the newest recruit, I had to prove myself.”

The hollow feeling in the pit of Guan Shan’s stomach took an acrid turn as he remembered the loud bangs like cracks of thunder; blood and fragments of bone; the thump of deadweight on a hard surface. He fought a wave of nausea. Forced himself to focus on the present. He was no stranger to violent deaths, but the flagrant injustice, the blatant disregard for the sanctity of life, were transgressions he would never get used to. Could never forgive.

He Tian started walking again, and Guan Shan fell in step with him.

“Is that why your comrades followed us?” Guan Shan eventually asked. “They don’t trust you with her?”

“It would be real easy,” He Tian said. “Once she’s patched up, I could disappear with her. Put her up for ransom. Claim it all for myself.”

Guan Shan was almost certain He Tian had taken out the rebels who had been tailing them, and he couldn’t fathom why the insurgent would betray his group unless he intended to do exactly that. “So it’s true then? That’s your plan?”

“This is war. Everybody’s lost somebody. Some of us have lost... everything.” He Tian paused, a faraway look in his gaze. “Now it’s every person—fighter, farmer, politician—for themself. You? Your base gets blown up and your team is evacuated, but what do you do? You stay behind, the last man standing, deluded as fuck and hellbent on saving everyone.” He Tian’s voice turned rough as he confessed, “Not me, though. I’m saving my own ass. Fuck everyone else.”

And yet, Guan Shan didn’t believe him. Not when he’d seen first-hand how He Tian had clobbered the fuckhead who had tried to molest Jian Yi; when, in the bunker, he’d helped Guan Shan get his ass in gear; when he’d ground out a pained _“bāghu”_ as Guan Shan had tried to resuscitate a stranger’s baby.

They progressed through the grove in silence, the crunch of frozen foliage interspersed with the gusts of their laboured exhalations.

Guan Shan thought about Ren and the empty look in her eyes. He couldn’t begin to imagine how terrified she must have been. Had she known her father had forsaken her? That he’d sacrificed her for the intel and leverage that detaining an influential guerrilla fighter would give him and his corrupt party? Next, Guan Shan’s mind wandered over to Jian Yi—the brave look on his face when he told a heart-wrenching story that made his hands quiver, and how steady those hands were when they wrote down the dying wishes of a casualty on their last breath.

They _had_ to be okay. Guan Shan had to believe that whoever had taken them wouldn’t just... kill them senselessly. And he didn’t fucking care _how_ deluded that made him sound.

There was a small checkpoint where the main road leading out of the town merged with a two-lane highway. Initially policed by the military during the dawn of the civil war, it had since been taken over by rebels who were more interested in roadside extortion than fighting for freedom. It was He Tian who had suggested that they verify whether the ambulance had passed through the checkpoint; if it had, then they’d have their answer: the bus was headed for Khstan. If not, it had probably double backed on itself and was somewhere in town.

The trees grew further apart, the thicket less crowded. By the time they reached an opening in the grove, Guan Shan had lost all feeling in his feet. Sleet had slipped through the back of his collar, dampening his clothes and making him tremble in the chill.

“We’ll approach head-on,” He Tian instructed. “We don’t want them mistaking us for hostiles on the attack.”

Guan Shan nodded, the motion more a jerk and a hunch of shoulders.

Through the screen of slush pellets, Guan Shan could make out the checkpoint booth. There wasn’t anyone patrolling outside but nor were there any vehicles currently trying to pass through.

Pulling up the neck gaiter over his nose, He Tian muttered, “Keep close.”

Together, they emerged from the cover of trees and skidded down a short slope back to the roadway. Flanked on both sides by a helical stretch of concertina wire, the section of road leading up to the checkpoint was punctuated with potholes and crocodile cracking. They skirted alongside the wiring until He Tian found a section distorted enough for him to manipulate with the buttstock of his rifle. Gingerly, Guan Shan leapt over the razor wire with He Tian in tow.

As they neared the booth, Guan Shan noticed that the boom barrier—snapped in the middle—was askew. The checkpoint was eerily quiet, and no one challenged them as they got closer. When Guan Shan tasted the sweet, coppery tang of blood carried on the wind, he felt an iciness slither down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold. He grabbed the tail end of He Tian’s jacket, tugging him to a stop.

“I smell it too,” He Tian said, bringing up his rifle and adjusting his stance. “Stay behind me.”

Crouching low, they stepped over broken glass and bits of plastic, scattered in a halo around the booth. The wooden door, splintered and scratched in places, was slightly ajar, and Guan Shan’s throat convulsed around the stench of death. His stomach rolled with a sense of forebode.

He Tian nudged the door, and it swung outwards with a creak. With a hand, he motioned for Guan Shan to stay back. Then, advancing forward, he brought the carbine’s muzzle up and entered the booth. Within a few seconds, Guan Shan heard He Tian remark, “ _Khtā.”_ And then again, in English. “Fuck.”

From his position outside the booth, Guan Shan could see a three-legged table on its side, a couple of chairs strewn around it. He waited until He Tian reappeared in his field of vision before joining the insurgent inside.

In the enclosed space, the foetor was suffocating. And Guan Shan flinched when he saw the two bodies—or more accurately, the one and a half bodies. They looked like they had been thrown against the far wall: neck and limbs at odd angles, blood splatter and streaks to indicate where they’d been dragged and tossed, crimson tracks charting their struggles.

They were dressed in the dark fatigues that marked them as rebel fighters, but there weren’t any other distinguishing features. One of them had had his face shredded, skull caved in, nose hanging by a strip of flesh; the other had been transected through the waist, and the upper half of the body was nowhere in sight.

“What the hell?” Guan Shan winced, eyeing the stumps where a pair of hands had once been.

He Tian’s brows furrowed. “Wolves.”

“Wolves?” Incredulous, Guan Shan waved at the mangled mess of torn flesh and ragged muscle where genitals should have been. “These guys were _tortured_. This wasn’t done by an animal.”

“Not wild wolves, _mōhra_. Trained.”

Guan Shan turned away from the bodies. “By who? And why?”

“I’ve not come across them, personally. But I’ve heard of them.” He Tian pulled his neck gaiter down, eyes fixed on the carnage before them. “They’re a faction of radical anarchists based in the south. They’re hunters, originally, and have been breeding grey wolves and turning them into killing machines for generations.” He curled his lip. “There’d been some talk that they were headed west, towards _Khstān_. But I thought they were just rumours.”

“Do you think...” Guan Shan had to breathe in through his mouth to continue. “Do you think they have anything to do with Jian Yi and Ren going missing?”

He registered a dour look on He Tian’s face before the deafening blast of a gunshot boomed through the booth, the sound juddering through the walls. A solid weight crashed into Guan Shan and he body-slammed the ground. He grit his teeth as the sudden impact jarred through him like that one time he’d accidentally shocked himself with a defib.

_What the fuck?_

When a shredded breath warmed the shell of his ear, Guan Shan realised it was He Tian’s weight that had knocked him down.

_Shit._ Had he been hit?

Who the hell was shooting at them?

_Fuckdammit._ Was this how it ended? In a bloodbath at the ass-end of the boonies?

“Are you hurt?” Guan Shan wheezed just as He Tian asked, “You okay?”

Then another shot rang out, softer this time, though it still made Guan Shan recoil.

“Motherfucking piece of shit,” He Tian growled, uncurling the arm that was wound protectively around Guan Shan’s head.

The trace of amusement in his voice had Guan Shan tentatively looking up. “What—”

The wooden door to the booth bounced open, the latch not quite catching. It wavered before the wind caught it again and flung it shut, the frame rattling and the subsequent thundering _thwack_ like a gun going off.

“Oh fucking hell,” Guan Shan exhaled, relieved. They weren’t under fire. “Fuck.”

The heft on top of him lightened as He Tian rolled off of him with a heavy thud of Kevlar and muscle mass. Keeping low, He Tian scuttled towards the half-open door, his rifle sweeping left and right as he visually cleared the immediate vicinity.

In the meantime, Guan Shan got himself up. He tried his best to ignore the streaks of blood and body fluids that had transferred onto his clothes, only grimacing slightly when he had to pluck out the jagged human tooth that had wedged into the base of his palm. He didn’t look back at the remains of the rebels as he exited the booth; it was harder to delude himself about Jian Yi and Ren’s safety with the depraved display of perverse violence drenching the walls.

He Tian had drifted further up the road, past the boom barrier, and was inspecting something on the ground. Guan Shan took his time catching up, chugging deep breaths of dry air in a desperate attempt to dispel the miasma of mutilation and death from his sinuses.

From this distance, Guan Shan could see the military man He Tian had once been: shoulders drawn back, chest high, chin up. And he wondered what He Tian’s story was, what his breaking point had been, when he went from a soldier who had pledged allegiance to the Juazi flag to a lone insurgent who betrayed even his own brethren.

And what the fuck was that about in the booth? When He Tian had shielded Guan Shan, using his own body like a suit of armour? Had the knee-jerk reaction been an echo of his military training? Or the consequence of the complex morals of an insurgent gone rogue?

Or something else entirely?

“Watch your step,” He Tian cautioned, nodding at the space between them.

Guan Shan followed He Tian’s gaze to the dark, mushy smear on the asphalt.

“What is that?” Guan Shan asked, side-stepping the mess and overshooting a little; his shoulder bumped into He Tian’s.

“What does it look like?”

“Well...” Guan Shan eyed the thick splodge. It didn’t look like anything, aside from something amorphous that had been flattened and raked through. “It smells like shit.”

He Tian grunted. “Courtesy of our lupine friends. But that wasn’t what I was talking about.” He pointed at the patterned streaks running through the dark sludge.

“Tyre tracks,” Guan Shan said, not sure of their significance.

“You don’t recognise ’em?” He Tian’s kajal-rimmed eyes were bright, blazing with a revelation. “That’s our bus, _mōhra_. And those crazy fuckers from the south have hijacked it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ❆ Glossary of Terms ❆
> 
> **GSW:** Gunshot wound; a casualty of a gunshot wound.  
>  **CCP:** Casualty Clearing Post, also known as Casualty Clearing Station; a frontline medical unit that triages, stabilises and evacuates casualties. 
> 
> _Khstān:_ The second largest city in Turanjuaza.  
>  _bāghu:_ (vulgar slang) Shit.  
>  _mōhra:_ Foreigner; stranger; newcomer.  
>  _Centē ni Juāzaṁ:_ The Juazi Brigade.  
>  _khtā:_ (vulgar slang) Fuck.  
> 
> 
> ❆ Author's Note ❆
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. I'd love to hear what you think so far, so please consider leaving a comment or kudos! I truly appreciate every single one of them.
> 
> Happy Holidays, bichz 💋
> 
> Zack x


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